


And Patches Will I Get Unto These Cudgelled Scars

by derry667



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: And almost certainly not the one you're expecting, Backstory, Character Study, Faustian Bargain, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Season/Series 01 Spoilers, Slight crossover with Doctor Who, Steep learning curves, vague implication of previous child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7308232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derry667/pseuds/derry667
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he became a Time Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When Rip Hunter described his past as being “a cutpurse from the age of five”, my mind immediately went to a line from Shakespeare’s HenryV (the Kenneth Branagh movie version to be precise) and after that I couldn’t shake the idea that he was taken by the Time Masters from Shakespeare’s time. In fact, that whole episode fascinated me and I really wanted to explore how an Elizabethean street urchin might evolve into the man we saw in the series. So let’s take a look at the possibilities, shall we?
> 
> Feedback, including constructive criticism, is most welcome.

_Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?_  
_News have I, that my Nell is dead i' the spital_  
_Of malady of France;_  
_And there my rendezvous is quite cut off._  
_Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs_  
_Honour is cudgelled. Well, bawd I'll turn,_  
_And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand._  
_To England will I steal, and there I'll steal:_  
_And patches will I get unto these cudgell'd scars,_  
_And swear I got them in the Gallia wars._  
_(William Shakespeare - Henry V, Act 5, Scene 1)_

 

Two days ago, he had nearly been caught lifting the purse of an old gentleman in the crowd that watched a hanging outside the Tower. He had thought the old fellow was the father of the man dangling from the gallows. Someone such as that should have been stricken by grief and should not have noticed light fingers reaching for his overladen purse.

 

The old man’s grip on his wrist had been surprisingly strong, but life on the streets of London had taught the young thief to always keep his knife had been within easy reach. After stabbing out blindly, he had run as soon as he’d felt the fingers fall slack, and he had just kept running until he reached London Bridge.

 

Even though the crowds on the bridge itself always offered many opportunities to lift a purse, he knew that there would be no room to run, not even for one as small and nimble as himself, if he was caught again. So instead, he crossed the river as quickly as he could and made his way to the new theatre on the southern bank, hoping that people watching the entertainments would take little notice of any children underfoot.

 

In the two days since, he hadn’t managed to gain any coin, but he did filch a couple of apples from a cart in the street. He hoped for better pickings this evening, as he heard a rousing chorus of cheers signal the end of the play and saw that many of those leaving the theatre were already staggering with their wine and ale.

 

His eye was drawn to an exotic pair, both lithe and lean rather than sleek and indulged, but looking about them with a curiosity which declared them to be strangers to the city. Such travellers were often less wary than those born to London and he thought he might have a chance with these two.

 

The man was tall and wore a brown cloth coat so long that it seemed to swirl about his ankles, but his step was sure and his gaze clearly searched for some place or person in particular. His companion was a truly exotic beauty – dark-skinned, with her black hair uncovered and tied high above her head, and her large dark eyes were mesmerising. Her dress was also strange for a woman. She wore trousers such that a man might wear and a short doublet of wine-coloured leather. She walked with confidence and grace, but stared at her surroundings with undisguised surprise and delight.

 

Taking all this in, he thought again and realised that they might not provide him the best opportunity for coin or food, after all. And yet something about them still drew him along in their wake.

 

From their discourse, it seemed that they too were following someone, a man called Shakespeare, and when they reached the lodging house which seemed to be their destination, the two strangers easily gained admittance. Despite their unusual attire, they carried themselves with the carefree ease of gentlefolk and none seemed to question them.

 

He sighed briefly, for he clearly could not follow inside. But even thus thwarted, he took of measure of his surroundings and reckoned that he might yet be able to lift a purse this night. Outside the lodging house was well lit. Several people still idled in the street and several more were passing by.

 

A few minutes later, a clearly prosperous but angry gentleman stormed his way up the stairs of the same lodging house and it seemed the best opportunity of the night. If that man left in the same temper with which he had entered, he might be somewhat careless with his purse and other trinkets.

 

However, Fortune proved unkind. When the man did reappear (still in a heightened passion), a woman from the lodging house immediately followed, laying hand upon his person and appearing to offer herself for the night. Although she was very beautiful and smiled at him most brightly, the man refused her and hurried away.

 

It seemed best to accept that tonight would be another night to fall asleep hungry and he still needed to find some small safe space to hide and sleep in. He was just about to leave and start looking when the wealthy gentleman abruptly returned to the street, not angry and determined as he had left, but staggering and strangely seeming to spew forth water.

 

Just as suddenly, the exotic strangers also reappeared, running down the steps from the lodging house. They managed to catch hold of the ailing gentleman as he collapsed to the street floor. Almost as soon as his hit the ground, they pronounced him dead and said that it was due to an imbalance of the humours.

 

That was a lie. That was so plainly a lie that surely none would believe it. There was nothing natural about this death. This was witchcraft. This was the Devil’s work.

 

They were saying that someone must fetch the constable and the pretty woman, the one who accosted the gentleman earlier, came forth to say she would do so. No one else seemed to notice the vicious light in her eyes. He didn’t understand how they could fail to see it.

 

He had to get away from there. Slowly and quietly, with a hand stretched behind him to feel his way, he stepped backwards, into the darkness of an alleyway. He kept his eyes fixed on those gathered in the street – kept his eyes fixed on _her –_ until she suddenly turned her gaze towards him and smiled that burning bright smile. The look in her eyes was pure _evil_ and a cold chill ran through him, his breath catching in his throat.

 

He swiftly turned on his heel and ran blindly down the alley, not needing to look back to know that he was being followed. His pursuer had a light enough tread, but he had managed to survive alone on the streets of London for more than two years now with nothing but his wits and the small knife in his hand to protect him.

 

He ran until his legs grew weak and his chest ached as he gasped for breath. His pursuer still followed behind. It seemed that just his speed and nimbleness of foot would not be enough to escape. He didn't know if he dared risk it all on pure stealth. But between some houses ahead, there seemed to be a deep but narrow gap and maybe he could still use his small size to his advantage. He himself might barely squeeze into it and certainly no one larger could have any hope of gaining entrance.

 

He tried to slide through sideways, tried to slow his breathing, tried not to make a sound and he thought he might have succeeded. Hethought that maybe he was finally safe, when a hand suddenly reached in and gripped him hard by the hair. His knife was already close to hand. He wasn't stupid and immediately slashed upwards as fiercely as the small space would allow.

 

This time, his captor’s grasp did not loosen at all. Instead, the fingers tightened and pulled. He felt some hair pulling free, but refused to cry out from the pain. He would gladly lose hair if it meant he still could escape, but it was not to be. He was slowly and inexorably drawn from his hiding place, still wildly swinging the knife.

 

He was surprised to see that it was not the witch-woman who had found him.

 

It was a man he had not seen before. Beardless, but not a youth. Not particularly tall or richly dressed, but his power and authority were obvious in his bearing. Blood from several fresh knife cuts dripped down his arm, but he paid no heed at all to that, as he finally released his hold.

 

The man retrieved something from his belt and held it out before him.

 

There was a burst of blue fire.

 

Then nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I couldn't resist the quasi-crossover with The Shakespeare Code episode of Doctor Who.


	2. Chapter 2

The room was made entirely of metal, beaten and polished impossibly flat and smooth but then left long enough for the surfaces to dull. Sitting quietly on the floor, he could not hear any voices or sounds of movement and the place had no smell. There was light enough to see clearly, although he could see no candles or torches, but he could not find a door.

 

He was warm enough and no longer in any pain. The aches that he’d woken with had long since faded and he was not surprised to find that his knife had been taken while he'd slept.

 

The quiet confines of the strange metal box had begun to prey on his thoughts. It did not look like either the Gates of Heaven or the Pits of Hell, but he began to wonder if he might have actually died. He clutched at his limbs, suddenly fearful that he might have become some sort of spirit or shade left to walk the Earth for all eternity, but he found that they still felt solid enough.

 

There was a sudden strange noise behind him, like a small gust of wind over an unnatural humming sound. He leaped to his feet and turned to see a hole suddenly appear in the metal wall where none had been before, large and square like a doorway. The man that stood in that doorway, preventing any escape, was the same one that had released the blue fire upon him.

 

He could see no way past, as the man slowly and steadily advanced into the room. Scrambling backwards, he collided painfully with another hard metal wall.

 

“Please, sir! I didn’ do nuthin! I didn’ see nuthin!”

 

The man stopped in front of him and stared down silently for what seemed to be a very long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was stern, but not angry.

 

“I find that difficult to believe. Quick boy like you.”

 

He then took a step backwards and began to pace back and forth in the small space in front of the doorway. He wasn’t leaving enough space to slip past and escape, but if he wished to talk, maybe he would eventually lower his guard.

 

“Quick?”

 

The pacing stopped and the man turned to look at him again. “I’ve seen that you are quick on your feet and you are certainly quick with a knife.”

 

He couldn’t stifle a flare of resentment. “Got no knife now. You took it!”

 

“For the time being. You won’t need it here.” The man stepped even closer this time, so that they were almost nose to nose. “Do you have a name?”

 

The question stung, although he wasn’t sure why. Of course, he had a name. Maybe he hadn’t heard it spoken for a year or more, but he surely had a name and he blurted it out defiantly.

 

“Michael.”

 

The man’s face became slightly amused, although he did not actually smile. “Do you have a second name?”

 

Michael almost scoffed. More than one name? That was for people who had family or a trade or a place that they came from, something to which they belonged. He had none of these, but the question seemed to be a test and he was determined to not fail, so he plucked a name from recent memory.

 

“Shakespeare.”

 

The man did smile briefly then, but hid it quickly.

 

“Michael Shakespeare, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He held out a hand for shaking. “I am Time Master Druce.”

 

Michael eyed the extended hand, but did not take it. He wanted to gain room to escape, not to come any closer.

 

“Time Master? Master of... You’re what? You’re the keeper of time? Of the hours?”

 

The man outright laughed. “I suppose you could say that. I’m one such keeper and my name is Druce.”

 

“You got a second name?”

 

“None that you need to know right now.”

 

So asking for his second name had been a trick. Michael hated being outwitted and his anger momentarily overshadowed his fear. He had nothing to strike out with, but he felt his fists clench at his sides.

 

Druce also noticed and the small smile returned to the man’s face. “Yes, Michael, it was a mistake to surrender your name so easily, but don’t worry. It won’t be your name for much longer.”

 

That sounded very bad indeed. His back was so tightly pressed against the wall that he could not move any further away, but he bent one knee, placing the foot against the wall behind. He crouched slightly and bent his head down, as if cowering in fear, but he kept his eyes fixed on Druce.

 

The man began to pace again and seemed to be enjoying his explanation. “Knowing your name can give an enemy power over you. You can’t even imagine the damage I could inflict on you, knowing your true name.”

 

Druce only looked away for the briefest moment, but it was enough. Michael instantly pushed off the wall, darting past him and out through the doorway, ignoring the angry bellow that followed.

 

On the other side of the doorway was some kind of tunnel, also made of metal. One direction along this tunnel seemed much like the other and he spared not even a moment for thought before sprinting to his left.

 

Echoing steps followed in his wake, as he clattered down a staircase, and he heard the man shout, “Gabriel!”

 

So Druce wasn’t alone. There was someone else here, even if he couldn’t see them. He had no way of knowing where this new threat would come from but he knew where Druce was and he could guess the way in which Druce would attack him.

 

There was a small gap under the stairs which Michael quickly and quietly slipped into and watched as Druce stepped off the bottom stair. There, attached to his belt, was – something. It was black and had a strange shape, but Michael had some idea what it was. He’d had only glimpsed it in the dark, but it had to be the source of the blue fire.

 

He launched himself from under the stairs before Druce could fully turn and grabbed the thing from his belt as he ran past. His momentum made him slide into a corner at the base of the stairs, but he managed to turn and point the strange black object up at Druce.

 

It felt strange in his hand and he saw the blue fire suddenly ignite. Instinctively knowing that the fire should not be facing towards him, he flipped the thing in hands so it was pointed at Druce.

 

“Stay back! And tell Gabriel too.”

 

Druce stood with his hands slightly raised, palms open and facing forward. He took a step backwards, but he was smiling again.

 

“Quick and clever and clearly not afraid to take a chance. You have quite some potential, Michael Shakespeare.”

 

Strangely, he felt trapped again. He had control of the blue fire, but Druce was unafraid. He could run, but he didn’t know the way out of the metal tunnels and he still didn’t know where Druce’s ally, Gabriel, might be.

 

But it was becoming ever more clear that Druce liked to talk and talking now might be his only way to escape.

 

“What do you want, Master Druce?”

 

“Perhaps I want your service, Master Shakespeare.”

 

Michael felt his head tilt in confusion. Why would a man with Druce’s powers need the service of a common cutpurse?

 

“How would you like to never be hungry again? You could have a warm bed to sleep safely in every night.”

 

“And for this you’d want me to serve you?”

 

Michael could now imagine what such service would be and it had naught to do with thievery. Almost without realising, he raised the blue fire source higher, but Druce merely lifted his eyebrows in response.

 

“Not serve me personally, no, but you would swear your allegiance to the higher authority that I also serve. In time, you could also become a Time Master.”

 

Now he was confused again. This sounded like he was being asked to declared his allegiance to Druce’s lord or his king?

 

“What would I have to do?”

 

“You would have to give up all that you are now. Michael Shakespeare would be no more. You would have a new name and a new life. Oh,” he held out his hand, “and you’d have to give my gun back to me.”

 

Michael felt his chest tighten, as he finally realised the true nature of the bargain. At the theatre, he had seen them perform stories about witchcraft and men selling their souls to the Devil. The words they used to work a magical incantation or strike a Devil’s Bargain were often strange and it had seemed that they had to get the words right or the magic might somehow be overturned. Druce wanted his very soul in service to this “higher authority”. If he refused, surely they would kill him.

 

He had to keep talking. Keep talking and maybe find a way to escape.

 

“So, you say I must forsake my name and swear my soul and service to your masters. And, if I do, then you will teach me your powers?”

 

Druce’s outstretched hand fell and his eyebrows rose again. “How very Faustian. First Shakespeare and now Marlowe. For an ignorant guttersnipe, you’re surprisingly well acquainted with the literary greats of your era.”

 

Druce was clearly close to laughing again and Michael didn’t understand his strange speech. The man was taunting him, if Druce was even a man at all and Michael now had doubts about that. But even if Druce was the Devil himself, Michael would not be his plaything.

 

“Tell me plainly what oath I must swear!”

 

“Very well.” Druce once again stretched out his hand, as he proposed the oath. “If you, Michael Shakespeare, will give up your name and take another at my suggestion, if you will apply yourself to learn everything that myself and other Time Masters will teach you and if you will swear to serve the Council of Time Masters faithfully for the rest of your life, then I swear to you that you will have powers beyond your wildest dreams, you will see the rise and fall of empires and you will become part of the Destiny of the Universe itself.”

 

It sounded like a Devil’s Bargain indeed and such deals were meant to be inescapable. But calling himself “Shakespeare” had been a lie. He had never had any other name but Michael and maybe if Druce used a false name in his incantation, the spell would fail. It was the very smallest morsel of hope, but it was all he had.

 

He wasn’t prepared to die here and now at this devil’s hand. He would live and learn to outwit him and break free of this deal.

 

He reached out and grasped the man’s hand with a firm grip. Druce gave their clasped hands one brisk shake and then released him.

 

The Devil’s bargain had been struck, but it wouldn’t count because his name wasn’t Shakespeare.

 

It would all be fine. He would be fine. He would find a way out of this.

 

Still staring at Druce, he nodded once, firmly and decisively, and only then did he place the blue fire source into the man’s still outstretched hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The possibility that Rip might have been a street urchin from Victorian times was discussed in the comments from the last chapter, but while I definitely see the merit in that idea, I really wanted to make him from Elizabethan England instead. I had a couple of reasons. Firstly, it was the term “cutpurse” that really grabbed my attention and that is a very old word for a pickpocket, far more Shakespearean than Dickensian. And secondly, someone from the Victorian era would probably be familiar with the technology of the Industrial Revolution. They would know about steam engines and that the world wasn’t flat, etc, but someone from Elizabethan times would probably only be able to attribute very advanced technology to supernatural forces. The events of this chapter probably make it obvious why I wanted to have young Michael prone to that way of thinking. I suppose I am psychologically torturing the poor kid a bit (or Druce is, really) but he will meet a much more sympathetic character in the next chapter. He’s going to be “a mean little bastard” about it though.


End file.
